of memories
by stolashoots
Summary: Durbe can feel his memories slipping through his grasp.


Durbe **and Chris are about the same (physical) age in this. Takes place a few years after Zexal.**  
 **Big thanks to bus**

He's dreaming, dreaming of his past, dreaming of the time before he was targeted by a dark god, feeling light and happy without anything weighing him down. It's going well, fantastic even, and then, and then it isn't. He can see the setting vividly, it's a field from Nasch and Merag's little island, the city in the distance, and Mach is near, grazing on grass. Nasch and Merag are with him too, lying on either side of him and watching the clouds roll by.

Nasch says something, but even though they're right beside each other, the words don't reach his ears. Nasch smiles and Merag barks out a laugh, and Durbe knows he's missed something important, but this is a memory so he can't stop to ask Nasch to repeat himself; all he can do watch as the scene continues. Now it's Merag's turn to talk, and she looks at Durbe for a reply, but he has no idea what she said.

He speaks, and he can feel the vibrations from the words but they still don't reach his ears. Nasch frowns at him, Merag's smile grows tight, and as the conversation continues, Durbe desperately wishes he knew what was being spoken. This is his memory, this is his past, he should be allowed to remember it fully, but he can't, and it hurts.

Durbe flutters his eyes open and is met with the sight of plastic glowing stars Chris still hasn't gotten around to prying off the ceiling. He's warm, huddled under the covers with Chris pressed against his side and his arm thrown across Durbe's stomach to keep him from rolling away in his sleep. His eyes ache and his nose begins to run, and he wants to go back to sleep and pretend what he can't remember doesn't matter anymore. He's in the future now, the present that is, and his past can't affect him.

Only, it does because so much history, Durbe's history, that eludes him, and if he's already forgotten everything important to him from the past, then how long will it take for him to also forget his new memories? It's not a pleasant thought, and Durbe can feel his stomach churn because of it. He isn't going to be getting anymore sleep tonight.

Durbe slips out of Chris' grasp and out of their bed. Using the light of the glow-in-the-dark stars, Durbe finds a sweatshirt on the floor, sniffs it to determine if it's clean enough to wear, then puts it on. He can tell it's Chris' by its size, but he knows Chris won't mind if his borrows it. He moves over to their bookcase, grabs his scrapbooks, and leaves the room without waking Chris.

He makes his way to the library, his free hand dragging against the wall as he walks in the dark, his bare feet sticking slightly to the hardwood flooring. Durbe reaches the library within a handful of minutes, having only made one wrong turn during his trip. He navigates through the tall bookshelves and equally tall stacks of books to the back corner to a small sitting area.

Durbe flips on a lamp on an end table and makes himself comfortable on the couch beside it. For a moment, he wishes he brought along a blanket, the one typically on the back of the couch is missing and his pajama shorts don't properly cover his legs from the chill, but he makes do anyway. He sets all but one of his scrapbooks at his feet on the other side of the couch and rests the first in the stack on his knees.

He opens it, careful not to tug too hard and risk damaging it, and inspects the cover page. " _A book of memories,_ " is written in ink in his handwriting, and dates are below it. Other than that, the page is plain, and he moves onto the next page. Like the last, this one isn't very pleasing to the eyes, and pictures are haphazardly glued to the page, still rectangular and uncut. The pictures themselves are blurry and unfocused, often times just barely capturing the main subject. Under the pictures are hasty messages scribbled in pen, dates and tiny blurbs to tell the reader what the picture is of.

Durbe smiles, his first attempt at scrapbooking is horrible. It's boring and vague and he hadn't even discovered to wonders of colored paper or glitter yet, but just holding it in his hands lightens his mood.

He flips the page and there are pictures of him and his comrades, the ex-Barians, all in their alien forms, given to him by Haruto. ( _"For you, Uncle Durbe," Haruto says as he hands the drawing over. "It's for your picture book; you and the other Barians look really cool when you're rocks._ ") The crayon is smudged across the page, and a week after he taped it into the book, he had to remove it so Chris could laminate it so it would last longer. The image still warms his heart.

Durbe moves onto the next page, and then the next, slowly reliving his memories. Soon, he's completely forgotten about the chill in the air or the fact he's only gotten a few hours of sleep and he buries himself in the good times he's still able to remember.

Chris finds Durbe hours later curled up on the couch with his scrapbooks. Chris presses a kiss against his cheek, tells him good morning, and leaves. He returns in a few minutes with two cups of coffee and a platter of toast, small jam packets, and two butter knives. Chris sets everything on the coffee table, then moves the scrapbooks currently being unused to the side so he has room to sit beside Durbe.

Durbe accepts the cup of coffee, sipping at it before he discovers it's not scorching, then takes a gulp. He sets it to the side on the end table when the cup is empty.

"Rough night?" Chris asks as Durbe flips to a new page. He's on the most recently completed scrapbook now, and the pages are filled with color, glitter, and movable flaps hiding paragraphs summarizing what happened the day each picture was taken.

"Bad dreams," Durbe answers. He drops his feet off the couch and scooches over next to Chris, not taking his eyes off his scrapbook.

Chris hands him a piece of toast with jam spread on it. "Are you feeling better now?" Durbe shrugs and pushes his scrapbook to the edge of his lap so he doesn't get any crumbs on it. He munches on the toast, it's not exactly a very filling breakfast but it's the best to be expected at the Arklight household, unless Tron or Thomas are feeling up for cooking. Chis scrapes jam onto another piece of toast and gives it to Durbe when he finishes with his piece.

"Do you want to talk," Chris asks, reaching for his own coffee cup and sipping it. Seeing the goosebumps running up and down Durbe's legs, he pulls Durbe closer to his side, wrapping his arm around him. "I'm here if you need me, you know."

Durbe's eyes are unfocused; he isn't certain if this is something he's able to describe to Chris. "Yeah, just, just give me a second." He rubs his thumb over a picture of Alit and Gilag, their arms thrown over each other's shoulders and holding milkshakes in their unoccupied hands, grinning at the camera. They were celebrating their graduation from high school when it was taken.

"I'm getting old," Durbe begins, then winces because to an outsider, he and Chris probably look to be the same age. But then again, most people who don't know them wouldn't be aware of the Barians or Astrals, or even have any recollection of those few hours when Earth fused with Hell and the world burned. "I think I'm forgetting my memories of my past life."

Chris frowns, concerned, and leans closer to him. "Do you think this could be because you were reborn? That you're forgetting who you used to be?"

Durbe thinks, then shakes his head. No, he'd considered this before, but that's not the case. He tells Chris this. "I can remember who I once was, it's just that… the memories are fading. Some things I can remember vividly like they happened yesterday. Vector's fleet of battleships, Merag sacrificing herself to summon a god, the final battle, Mach and my deaths… It seems as though all the bad stuff has stayed with me, but all the good things, the things I want to remember, are gone now."

Durbe pauses and sighs again. Flips a page. There's a picture of Mihael holding a really big sword, grinning as though he's having the time of his life. Durbe closes the scrapbook and moves it onto the coffee table on top of the others. He leans back into Chris' waiting arms and looks up at the ceiling, his head resting against the couch cushion.

"I can't remember when my birthday was. I can't remember what my parents looked like, or their names, or their likes or dislikes. I can't remember the first time I flew with Mach, or any of the lands and people we discovered. I can't even remember the day I met Nasch and Merag." Durbe pauses. "As a Barian, I was nothing but a shield and sword for my people, no past, no future, just a vassal to Nasch. And then my memories returned and I was reborn, and now I can finally do something with my life, but I can't help but wonder when I'm going to start forgetting these memories too, the new ones I've created with Ryouga and Rio and you and Thomas and Mihael and Tron and everyone else." He stops, takes a breath, and pulls his legs up to his chest.

"I'm happy now. Really, really happy, but in ten, twenty, thirty years, when I look back, will I even remember any of this? Or will just the bad memories cling to me and the good ones escape me?" Durbe looks to Chris then, looks for reassurance he knows Chris can't provide.

"You're not going to lose all your good memories, Durbe." Chris says softly, combing his fingers through Durbe's hair.

"How can you know that?" Durbe's tearing up again, and Chris swipes his thumb under one of Durbe's eyes to catch his tears.

Chris pulls away from Durbe to lean over towards the coffee table and pick up the scrapbook Durbe just put down. He puts it in their laps and opens to a random page. "You can't lose your memories when they're all here, silly."

The main picture on the page is of Durbe wearing knight's armor, looking serious at the distance. Miheal is on one side of him, trying to pull his sword out of the sheath without him noticing, Thomas on his other side holding Tron's hand so he doesn't run off. Gently, Chris opens the paper flap the picture is glued onto so they can see the hidden writing.

" _June 15_ _th_ _. Went to a renaissance faire with Chris and his family. Moderners seems to have a very strange opinion of what life was like in the 14_ _th_ _-17_ _th_ _centuries, but it was still very fun. No one died at the jousting tournament, the "royal family" smelled pleasant and not like heavy lavender perfume, Thomas and I counted five women in "boobplates" and a countless amount of people in improper armor. Mihael wanted to buy a sword but was talked out of it. Chris looked out of place the whole time, but he was curious of the inconsistencies between the faire and the real past."_

"See?" Chris moves to another page, and there's a picture of him and Durbe on a date at a fancy restaurant, taken by Mihael and Thomas, who had been following them. Durbe was irritated at first when he found out, but the pictures they took during the date made up for it. There aren't many pictures of them together because usually Durbe is the one with the camera, so the few he does have he finds precious.

"Isn't this why you put everything in scrapbooks? So you won't forget anything?" Chris pats Durbe's shoulder.

"Oh," says Durbe. "Yeah… That's, that's why I started doing this." He brushes his thumb over the page.

"I don't know what we can do to help you remember your memories of your past life, but have you ever thought about writing down the things you still do remember? You won't have pictures like in your scrapbooks, but the memories will still be there for you to access at whenever you want." Chris suggests.

Durbe reaches out and hugs Chris close. He'd never considered doing something like that before, but now that he thinks about it, it's a really good idea. Durbe pulls away, rubs his eyes dry, and then puts his scrapbook back on the stack. "I think… I think I'm going to do that."

"There's an empty notebook in the desk by my side of the bed if you want to use it."

Durbe nods and rushes out to go find it. When he returns, he's holding a notebook in one hand and a pen in the other. He settles against Chris on the couch, noting that Chris has finished off the rest of the toast and has a book of his own in his hands to read.

He opens up the cover, skips the first page, and places his pen on the first line. He stares at the blank page for a full minute, working up the courage to put his thoughts down on paper and shoving away all the doubt that comes when he tries to talk about himself. He chooses a single memory, and writes a word, then another, and soon three words become five and five become twenty and his pen flies across the page.

He writes and writes and writes even after his wrist aches, Chris gets up to find something else to read, and the other Arklights wander into the library to see what they're up to. It's only when Chris brings him some lunch that he pauses in his work and rests his tired hand.

"How's it going," Chris asks, careful not to look over and read what Durbe has written. He's curious about it, but he'd rather wait until he has Durbe's permission first.

"I feel good about this." Durbe tells him, closing the notebook and setting it down next to his scrapbooks. "My wrist is starting to hurt, though."

"I'm glad… Not about the wrist part, of course."

They smile at each other and begin on their lunch, even though it feels wrong to eat while surrounded by so many books, but moving would be too much work and they're comfortable here on the couch.

"Want to know what I was writing about?" Durbe asks, gesturing at the notebook, and Chris nods. "It was about the first time I met Mach…" Durbe says, his smile falling slightly and his eyes growing distant. He leans against Chris as he begins telling the story, feeling light and happy because he knows with it copied down onto paper, he'll never forget this memory.

 **Thanks for reading! Please remember to leave a comment.**


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